


I Don't Know If All That's True

by thesnadger



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: I smell emotional issues, M/M, alcohol and drug references typical of Rick, gratuitous breakfast, implied sex and explicit cuddling, unhealthy behavior typical of Rick, vulgar language typical of Rick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 06:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnadger/pseuds/thesnadger
Summary: There's an infinite number of realities, and in a few of those Rick gets a happy ending with someone who loves him. Of course, that's the sort of life that some other Ricks might end up coveting.





	I Don't Know If All That's True

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Justin and Alex I will never have to think of titles for a Stanchez fic again, I'll just take a different line from “I Got You Babe” each time until I've gone through the entire song twice. 
> 
> The timeline is intensely fuzzy but this is probably the late 90s, close to the time Morty was born and a couple years before Soos was hired, if that helps.

The last car in the Mystery Shack's parking lot drove out towards the highway, the family inside it having finally decided to clear out and head off on the rest of their vacation. Took them long enough. Stan was thinking it was about time he instituted a policy of using the hose on lingerers, that was half an hour of nothing that he'd never get back.

As the car's lights faded into the distance, Stan let the big, cheesy grin he'd had plastered to his face relax and sighed deeply. He slipped off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and popped open the cinches on his girdle, heading back into the house. Must be nice, he thought briefly, having a family to go on vacation with. Hell, at this point he'd settle for any kind of vacation at all.

Coffee. That was what he needed. Coffee first, then he'd think about the night ahead.

Stan walked to the kitchen and put up a pot. He cracked his back, feeling pain blossom and fade away in his lower joints before settling down in the kitchen chair. He was getting too damn old. The tufts of grey at his temples that had made him look respectable when they'd first appeared now spread through the rest of his hair, leaving him with more salt than pepper. Really, he should bleach what little brown there was out completely—he looked like a kook with just a few stray patches of hair that didn't match the rest, and it creeped out the customers. May as well get rid of whatever traces of his youth were left. Wasn't like he'd ever done much good with it anyway.

A knock came from the front door while the coffee was percolating. Possibilities flitted through Stan's mind—dumb tourists who couldn't read the 'closed' sign up front, local law enforcement following up on some petty complaint about 'noise pollution' or 'several incidents of grand theft auto,' maybe someone whose time was so worthless to them that they'd drive up here to try and sell him a political candidate or a religion. Either way, he was not getting up to deal with them.

“We're closed!” he shouted in the direction of the door. The knock came again, louder and longer this time. Stan groaned and reluctantly stood up.

“I said we're closed,” he growled, “beat it! I've got ten guns and three baskets of snakes back here and I will not hesitate to use them in tandem!”

“Nice threat, vague but menacing,” came the voice from behind the door. “R-r-really adds to the whole 'dangerous loner' charm of this place. Open up, babe, it's me!”

Stan was halfway to the door before he'd even fully processed whose voice he was hearing, let alone what Rick being back so soon might mean after last time. He felt himself smiling as he undid the locks, a smaller, easier smile than the one he wore for tourists. As soon as the chain was undone, the door flew open and Stan was knocked back wards—Rick dove into his arms, pulling him into a kiss, then another. This was a surprise, he wasn't usually this affectionate right off the bat, and the possibility that he was on something more than his usual blend of vodka and bad ideas entered Stan's mind.

_Whatever._ Stan thought as Rick pulled back, smiling. _Doesn't matter._ He'd missed Rick too. Don't look a gift kiss in the mouth.

“You look like shit.” Rick said, knocking the fez off his head and twisting his fingers through Stan's hair. “Did you have too much fun while I was gone, or is this your natural recently-run-over-by-a-bus charm?”

Stan laughed and reached down to wrap his arms around Rick's middle, lifting him off the ground and hugging him just a little too hard until popping noises came from his back.

“Look who's talking. At least I still have all my hair.” Stan said. Rick groaned as he set him down. “What are you doing here, anyway? Wasn't expecting you back for a while.”

“Eh, you know.” Rick shrugged, nudging past him towards the kitchen. Ready to make himself at home, nothing new there. “Couldn't keep away from the disease-infested forest creatures and the toothless men selling questionable jerky by the roadside.”

“You're in a good mood.” Stan said carefully, following him. “So it couldn't have gone _too_ bad.”

Rick didn't respond to that, instead taking an interest in one of the half-finished pieces of taxidermy Stan had left lying on the kitchen counter.

“Hey, I get it, i-it's literally a catfish. Nice.” He picked the small stuffed creature up. “I-I don't care what people say, puns are a legitimate form of humor, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Stan didn't laugh. He stood in the doorway with his arms folded.

“...Did you actually go?” He asked.

Rick didn't turn around. He gave a half-shrug and made a noise that sounded like 'hmm?'

“To see Beth. When you left you said you were finally going to talk to her again.” Stan said. “Did you actually go, or did you wimp out and spend the last couple months snorting some weird space drugs on planet who-gives-a-crap?”

“Oh. That.” Rick's tone wasn't the tone of someone remembering a fight. More like a man being reminded of an unpleasant chore he had to do, which supported Stan's he-didn't-actually-go theory. “Yeah, it went okay. Just, uh. Y'know. Too much perfect functional family shit over there, had to take a breather, right?”

Stan thought Rick could have at least put a _little_ effort into lying to him, as a courtesy. It was really more of a plea than a lie. A flimsy excuse that was Rick's way of asking him to pretend he believed it so he didn't have to be disappointed. Stan sighed. It wasn't too much of a surprise, he supposed, but he'd really thought...well. It didn't matter what he'd thought.

“Yeah, sure. Must be a real pain, all that familial love and attention.” Shit. That had sounded a lot less bitter in Stan's head than when he'd actually said it out loud. He shrugged and waved a hand, trying to clear the air. “Whatever, you can always crash here for a while.”

“Thanks, Lee.” Rick smiled a little, opening the fridge and rummaging around. “Got anything to drink?”

“Er...I made coffee? Or there's Pitt Cola.” Stan said sheepishly. He'd poured out every drop of alcohol he'd had in the Shack a few weeks ago, after a couple of bad nights. He'd been thinking of going sober again for a while.

Rick rolled his eyes and pulled out a soda can, popping it open and taking a gulp. He winced at the sugary taste and poured half the contents of his flask in it.

“That's okay.” he said. “Y'know, I don't feel like getting that wild tonight anyway. You wanna just stay in and play cards or something?”

Stan thought about the night he'd had planned. Two hours of reading, first—he'd made it through _Quantum Physics for Dummies_ and _Quantum Physics For Slightly Smarter Dummies_ and was starting on _Quantum Physics For People Who Are Starting To Get The Hang Of Things But Still Have A Long Goddamned Way To Go_. That was going to be followed by as many slow, lonely hours downstairs as his body could handle, going over the console again and again, prying loose panels and examining what was behind them, praying that some spark of understanding would come out of it all. Then assuming he didn't fall asleep where he sat, there was the nightly chore of dragging his heavy, reluctant limbs back up the stairs, the inevitable weight of another night's failure carried with him.

He felt only the tiniest twinge of guilt as that image was steamrolled over by that of a warm, bright evening spent with Rick. It was no contest.

“Yeah.” He smiled, hooking an arm around Rick's middle and pulling him closer. “I'd like that.”

* * *

Morning came gently for once. Stan woke slowly, his drowsy brain remembering his surroundings. For once he didn't start his day by looking at the clock, or staring at the mold on the ceiling, or wincing at the random body aches he was starting to wake up with more often than not.

He only noticed a slow, easy warmth spreading through him, coming from the sleeping face that was pressed against his chest. He heard the sounds of Rick's breathing and felt his chest rising and falling against his own. Rick's limbs were tangled around him, gripping him loosely in his sleep, and when Stan moved they tightened just slightly. Deep in his chest, an ache that had been there long enough for him to stop noticing it that was releasing its hold a little.

Stan's own arms were still wrapped around Rick, had been long enough that the left one was dead asleep, and he shifted his position enough that some blood would be allowed to flow back into it. Rick wriggled a little as Stan shifted around him, but didn't wake up. Stan took the opportunity to squeeze him tighter, nestling into him.

In the back of his mind, he knew he had to get up. Either he'd forgotten to set the alarm, which would be bad, or he'd woken up before it and any minute now the comfortable little nest they were in would be disturbed by the shriek of his clock-radio. He reached up a hand to pet the back of Rick's head and planted a kiss on top of it...there was a faint chemical smell coming off his hair, and in the back of his mind Stan wondered if that was the smell of something Rick had got on him, or some weird side effect of all the crap the man put in his body. He hoped it was the former as he reluctantly disentangled himself and got out of bed.

A glance at the clock assured him that the alarm hadn't gone off yet, and he flipped the switch on the side to make sure that it wouldn't. As he got up and walked to the bathroom, those random body aches were starting to make themselves present again. Oof. Everything hurt. His back was sore and there was a wet spot where Rick had drooled against his chest in his sleep. He needed a cold shower and some hot coffee, immediately.

About half an hour later Stan was wrapped in a towel, finishing up his shaving routine in front of the mirror. He rinsed his razor off in the mug of water he kept by the sink, and peeked his head back into the bedroom.

Rick was still sleeping, splayed out on the bed with his arms tangled in the blanket and one leg hanging over the side. His complexion was tinted red by the light that came through the stained glass of Stan's window. (He rarely slept with it open anymore—bugs and blood-sucking fairies had a tendency to flit in on the night air, and he was sick of waking up covered in itchy, glittery bumps or mosquito bites that spelled out “THE END IS EARN.”)

Face now unobstructed by Stan's chest, Rick snored hugely. Awkward as the position was, Rick looked pretty relaxed and content lying there. For a moment Stan thought he should let him sleep. Then an impulse took him and he splashed the lukewarm contents of the mug onto him, waking him with a start.

Stan laughed uncontrollably as Rick flailed around, tangling himself in the covers and nearly kicking over the nightstand. His eyes finally focused on Stan and he glared, resentfully pushing himself up into a sitting position.

“You'd better be about to tell me I was on fire a minute ago.” he grumbled. “Or that you woke me up for an equally good, equally life-threatening reason.”

“Nah.” Stan said, still grinning. “Just couldn't resist.”

Stan ducked a second too late as Rick threw a pillow at his face, impressively hard. He dropped the mug and it fell onto the wood floor, miraculously only getting chipped. He bent to pick it up, still snickering.

“All right, asshole. I'm up now. ” Rick yawned. “So, what's the plan for today? Should we start off with a repeat of last night?” He added with a grin.

“Wish I could. Gotta go downstairs and open the Shack, get the first tours started.” Stan sighed, pulling on shorts and one of his cleaner undershirts. “You can go back to sleep if you want, though.” He hesitated, then in his best attempt at a casual tone added, “unless, of course, you changed your mind about helping me with the portal.”

He'd tried to adopt a sardonic tone, like it was all a joke, but he couldn't fully hide the need behind his suggestion. Rick didn't seem to notice, yawning and flopping back in bed.

“Eh. Make me some breakfast and I'll think about it.” He said.

Stan hesitated halfway to the door. When he spoke again his voice was quiet and serious.

“No you won't,” he said. “Don't say you will when you won't.”

Rick looked back at him, startled. Stan picked the pillow off the floor and tossed it back at him. It hit his face with a soft _whump_ and fell back onto the bed. The warmth that Stan had woken up with seemed diminished somehow, and he regretted bringing the portal up.

“I'll make breakfast,” he said, heading out the door. “But I reserve the right to spit in your eggs.”

* * *

Stan didn't spit in the eggs, though he couldn't tell for sure whether any stray hairs might have made their way into them. Whatever, Rick was never too picky about food. By the time the smell of bacon grease and coffee had lured Rick downstairs Stan had finished most of his own plate, and was on his second cup of coffee.

“Nice,” Rick said, seeing the plate set out on the table. “It's been forever since I had real eggs, y'know, like from a bird.”

Stan honestly didn't want to know what that meant and didn't question it, he just finished his breakfast and rinsed off the plate. Still feeling a little off, he stepped out into the hall to get the rest of his outfit on. He was adjusting his tie in the mirror when he heard Rick's voice come from the kitchen.

“It's a bold look, I'll give you that.” Rick said. “I've seen you wear some pretty questionable patterns, but actual question marks are a new one. Not many people would try to pull that off.”

“Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it.” Stan felt a smirk travel up his face. “Maybe I'm just ahead of the fashion curve.”

“Yeah, I'll be sure to look out for the new punctuation-based clothing craze.” Rick said. “Stock up on asterisk hats and semicolon ascots.”

“So what are you gonna be doing while I'm working for a living, anyway?” Stan asked, slipping on his suit coat.

“Eh, I'll keep busy.” Rick said, “maybe I'll discover a new solar system or invent a machine that lets you pat yourself on the back more efficiently. 'Working for a living,' ooh la la.” he added.

Stan smirked. “Maybe you can discover your own ass and pull your big head out of it.”

“Or I'll invent a robot version of you that has an on/off switch and a mute button.” Rick replied.

“Sounds good. Call me when you can mass produce and sell them. Till then, I've got some shmucks to entertain.” He finished adjusting the fez on his head, then stood in the doorway, striking a pose with his arms out. “How do I look?”

He'd been expecting a complimentary if lecherous remark, or maybe another insult about his taste in clothes. But Rick just stared at him, silently, long enough to make Stan uncomfortable. He lowered his arms and coughed.

Rick blinked. “There's a hard candy or something stuck to your jacket,” he said, turning his attention back to his eggs.

Stan looked down and quietly cursed. Damn kids and their sticky hands, one of them always left something on one of the exhibits, or him in this case. He plucked the little red sucker off and tossed it in the trash, then headed out to the ticket booth.

* * *

About half an hour and a dozen or so tickets later, a sizable group had assembled on the Shack's lawn. Stan stood off to the side, checking his watch. He'd start the first tour a little early...this group seemed like the type to ask a lot of dumb questions, and he didn't want it to run long.

As he walked out to start warming the crowd up, he heard a door open behind him. Rick had come outside and was sitting on the porch with what Stan assumed was the last of the coffee, watching the tourists who'd gathered on the lawn. Huh. Well, he could do what he wanted. If Rick wanted to see Stan at the top of his huckster game, let him! Maybe he'd learn a thing or two. Stan turned to the small crowd and cleared his throat.

“Welcome to the world-famous---”

Stan's words were cut off as a bright flash went off in his periphery, accompanied by a noise loud enough to make him jump. A beam of yellow energy shot across the lawn, hitting one of the tourists in his midsection. Stan stared in horror at the man—middle aged, and apparently there alone—as yellow light spread out over his body. A second shot was fired, vaporizing him instantly, and leaving behind only a pile of clothing and shoes.

The second shot seemed to break through the shock of the crowd and they scattered, screaming, running in every direction like cockroaches in a lit room. Most of them made it to their cars, though one guy just ran straight off into the woods. All of it happened too fast for Stan to even consider trying to come up with a line about it all being part of the show. He turned to look at Rick, who was sitting in the same spot, a bored look on his face and some sort of space gun in his hand.

“What the _hell,_ Rick?!” Stan shouted. “Have you lost your mind?!”

Rick set down the gun and walked past Stan, not responding. He reached the---well, not the body. There was no body, just a pile of clothes—and bent over, rummaging through them. Stan stared, still shocked in a way that was hard to measure. He'd seen death before, with Rick and on his own time, but this was so sudden and so bloodless it barely registered that Rick had just murdered a man in front of him.

Oh shit, Rick just _murdered a man in front of him._ Forget how Stan felt about it, how were the cops going to feel about it?

“Hey! I'm talking to you!” Stan said, “This isn't one of your weird space hangouts, you can't just shoot random people with---”

“Adrian Olsen” Rick cut him off, holding up the dead man's wallet and a holster. He pulled a couple of IDs out of the wallet and tossed them to Stan. “That's his name. You never met him personally, but he used to run with Rico's old gang.”

Stan caught the ID cards, fumbling to keep them from falling. He looked one of them over...the name and photo didn't mean anything to him, but the forgery job did look familiar....

“Rico heard a rumor you were still alive and I guess he was petty and bloodthirsty enough to send someone confirm it. This guy was gonna duck out halfway through the tour and report back that you were out here. Probably adding that half the locks in your damn house are broken and that the local law enforcement is too busy chasing butterflies and making out in their squad car to follow up on late night gunshot noises.”

Rick pulled a .40 glock out of the holster and tossed it to Stan, who dropped the IDs as he caught it. After rummaging around a little, Rick also found what looked like a rolled cloth toolkit. He held it out, letting it unroll and revealing a nasty collection of knives and other implements of Stan-didn't-want-to-know-what. Looking at it sent a chill down Stan's back.

“Sheesh, overkill much?” Rick asked, tossing them back onto the pile of clothes. “Who was _he_ trying to impress?”

“...How do you know all this?” Stan asked.

“I'm a genius.” Rick said. “Pretty sure I've mentioned that before.”

Stan looked down at the gun, still in his hands. His stunned face stared back at him, reflected in the polished metal.

“Anyway, looks like your tour group's gone.” Rick stood, stretching his arms behind his back and walking towards the Shack. “Since you've got the morning off, I suggest you spend it thinking up ways to thank me for saving your sweet—oof!”

Stan had grabbed Rick with his free arm and pulled him into a dip. Tossing the gun aside, he wrapped his other arm around Rick and kissed him.

“What do you say we get outta this dump for a while?” Stan said, finally pulling back.

“I say, hot damn.” Rick smiled. “You drive.”

* * *

Rick stuck around for a while after that. The two of them would wake up together in the morning. In the afternoon Rick would work on his little robot thingamajigs or try digging some rare mineral out of the woods and Stan would run tours on a half schedule so he'd have more free time.

Rick had almost gotten them both killed after insisting Stan take him to the Skull Fracture, and Stan had dragged Rick out to a lake deep in the woods to go swimming late one night after a few drinks, but a lot of their evenings were just spent inside. Sometimes upstairs at the card table or in front of the TV. Sometimes deep underground, Stan still tirelessly trying to understand his brother's portal, Rick quietly tinkering on the other side of the room. With him there, even a place as dark and cold as that basement had a just little bit of life in it.

Rick seemed content with all this, not suggesting even once that they go to one of those weird space errands he was usually so keen on on dragging Stan along with. Stan wasn't sure what had happened while he was gone, but he suspected Rick needed a break from something too.

About a week and a half after Rick arrived, the two of them were bundled together in Stan's recliner, with the best that Gravity Falls Public Access had to offer playing on the television in front of them.

“So...he exorcises ghosts by punching them?” Rick asked.

“Yeah, he has magic brass knuckles that were passed down by his father or something. At least I think they're magic, because they glow.” Stan shrugged. “To be honest I've only seen a couple episodes, but the fight scenes are pretty good.”

“The leather trench coat is a little much though, right?” Rick said. “I-is it even functional? Are ghosts repelled by the smell of all the sweat that thing's holding in?”

“I mean, if you were a ghost, wouldn't you be?” Stan said, absently shifting Rick into a more comfortable position on his lap. “Shame you can't really get rid of ghosts by punching,” he continued. “Remind me to tell you sometime about that creepy little pioneer kid who used to keep showing up at the foot of my bed....”

“Mmhmm.” Rick muttered, nuzzling the side of Stan's face. Before he knew it he'd lost all interest in the television show.

As the light from the television flickered over the room and the two of them nestled closer, Stan distantly thought he could hear scifi noises coming from the other room. Probably one of Rick's machines. As long as he didn't hear fire or explosions it was probably fine. He closed his eyes, blocking out everything else.

He heard Rick clear his throat. From the other side of the room.

Stan opened his eyes. Rick was still in his arms, sitting in his chair with him. He was also standing in the doorframe, arms folded, watching both of them.

“I was gonna knock,” he said. “But I guess there's no need to, seeing as I'm already here.”

* * *

Rick lived every goddamned day with the knowledge that there were countless slightly different versions of him running around this multiverse, as well as the understanding that any of them might cross paths with him, by accident or by design.

Generally, he tried to avoid that. Sometimes having other Ricks could be useful, especially when it came to tech ideas he was too lazy or uninterested in to follow up on, that some other Rick had built to completion and mass-produced. Sometimes it meant life-threatening danger because some asshole Rick deliberately set a galactic overlord or gang of freedom-fighters with a grudge after him, hoping to throw them off his trail. Mostly, though, it was just really fucking annoying.

Case in point. After finally making a trip he'd been thinking about for years, he'd been called away to deal with some bureaucratic cock-up at the Citadel of Ricks. Then, after thinking he might swing by Stan's place for a little fun and probably some brownie points with the big sentimental lug, he'd arrived to find his spot on Stan's lap was occupied by some asshole with his face and name.

By the look of shock on Stan's face, he hadn't realized he was canoodling with a Rickposter. This wasn't a walked-in-while-I-was-getting-steamy-with-an-alternate-version-of-you kind of surprise, it was I-have-genuinely-no-idea-what's-going-on kind of surprise, which was just typical really. Rick rolled his eyes.

“Geez, Lee, can't you tell the difference between me and some off-brand replacement?” He asked, putting a hand on his hip and gesturing towards the other Rick.

“No. No fucking way.” The other Rick, whoever he was, pulled away from Stan and stood up. “I get what you're trying to do, and obviously I had the same idea. But I have dibs, motherfucker. You don't disrespect another Rick's dibs. I was here first.”

“Gee, Rick,” Rick said, “I-I don't know what you're talking about. Could you maybe, uh, explain it in a more explicit way?”

“Cut the crap. I know you're not the Rick from this dimension. Rick D-570 is dead.” The other Rick—Rick decided to think of him as Bootleg Rick—growled. “He died after he accidentally opening a portal to the dimension of perpetually angry bees. You're just some random Rick trying to set up in his life, so don't try to act like you're anything else.”

“Yeah, I heard the same thing, fucknuts. Had to go to the damn citadel to correct some low-level Rick's stupid typo. D-750 is dead. Not me. So. You know.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Get the fuck out, huh?”

The other Rick glared at him and shook his head violently, “No, bullshit! Bullshit. Prove to me you're this dimension's Rick. Give me y-your portal gun so I can scan it.”

“You mean so you can use it to open a portal into the ass dimension and shove me in there so that I'll be stranded. I'd love to, except that I'm not a freaking idiot.”

“You're lying. You-you have to be.” Bootleg Rick's hands were shaking. Rick stared him down.

“Just go, all right? At this point you're embarrassing both of us.” Rick said, reaching forward to grab his arm and pull him towards the door.

Rick realized he'd fucked up just a second too late. Bootleg Rick was already reaching inside his coat, before Rick had time to react he'd pulled out a biomass destabilizer and was aiming it at his head. Rick took a step back and held his hands up.

“What the fuck?!” he said.

“The way I see it,” Bootleg Rick said, looking down the barrel of the destabilizer at him, “typo or not, the Rick from this dimension is supposed to be dead. So either you're another interloper, in which case I have no reason not to waste you, or else vaporizing your entire body'll just be putting things right again.”

Rick got a glimpse of Stan over Bootleg Rick's shoulder. He'd been listening, obviously, and the confused puppy-dog look on his face had been replaced by something a lot more alert and serious since he'd heard the phrase 'Rick D-570 is dead.' While they'd been talking he'd quietly stood and crept up behind Bootleg Rick. Rick watched as Stan glanced up toward the far left corner of the ceiling, nodding his head in that direction.

Rick nodded back subtly, and Stan grabbed the Bootleg Rick from behind, turning him forcefully to the side. Bootleg Rick squeezed off a shot as he was grabbed, and it went up towards the far left corner where Stan had called it, giving Rick space to dive out of the way.

While Rick got to his feet, Stan managed to pull Bootleg Rick's elbows back and got a hold of his wrists, forcing him to drop the destabilizer and pinning his arms against his body. Rick bent down to pick up the dropped weapon while his counterpart struggled and kicked. He was wriggly as hell but Stan's hold was solid, and he wasn't going anywhere. Still, for now that meant Rick couldn't shoot him without the blast going through his body and hitting Stan, too.

“Wait! How do you know which one of us is your Rick? H-how can you be sure _he's_ not the imposter?” Bootleg Rick tried desperately.

“Maybe because he just heard that whole conversation? Give him a little credit.” Rick raised half his brow. “Good job, babe. Get him on the ground, willya?”

While Stan wrestled the struggling Rick to the floor, Rick checked the settings on the weapon. He recognized the design, well enough to use it anyway. He walked up to the pair of them and aimed the barrel past Stan, at the back of the other Rick's head.

“Bye.” Rick said, and pulled the trigger.

Stan's eyes widened as he saw the weapon light up. He yelped and yanked Bootleg Rick out of the way, letting the beam of destructive energy blow past them and hit the floor. Rick frowned and looked at Stan for an explanation.

“Hey, wait---I mean...you don't need to kill him, do you?” Stan said.

Rick raised half his brow, irritated. “You angling for a threesome, Pines? Because there are less psychotic versions of me out there if that's what this is about.”

“Come on,” Stan turned to Rick, still resting most of his weight on the Rickposter's back. “Can't you just, I don't know, set that thing on stun or something?”

“Do you think this is fucking Star Trek?” Rick frowned. “Let me tell you something. Stun settings are for people who don't want to deal with their problems, they want to kick their problems a few hours into the future. You stun someone and they wake up and hour later, more pissed off than before, then come back and try to kill you. It's for people who deep down know that they need someone dead, but are afraid to admit to it. So no. I'm not going to set it on stun. Move out of the way.”

“Can't you just let him go? You have his gun...just send him off through a portal or something....”

“Are you kidding me with this?” Rick lowered the destabilizer, gesturing towards Bootleg Rick with it. “He pointed a gun at my head, he threatened to kill me!”

“Yeah, but you do dumb shit like that all the time!” Stan protested.

Rick glared at him, folding his arms. Nothing about this evening was going the way he'd expected it to.

“Rick...” Stan said, his voice softer this time. “He's still _you._ ”

Rick looked him in the eye. “You think I haven't killed _me_ before?”

Stan balked at that. Fuck. That sad, pitiful look on his face was worse than anything else that had happened to Rick today. The longer Rick looked back, the more he felt the rage and drive drain away from him and seep into to the floor.

Bootleg Rick broke the silence by bucking as hard as he could under Stan's weight. Not enough to throw him off, but enough to shake both of them.

“Just d-do it already!” he screamed, shaking and pulling himself forward. Stan kept a grip on him, but barely. “Fuck the both of you, shoot i-if you're gonna, j-j-just stop talking me to death!”

Stan looked down as he got a better grip on Bootleg Rick, then back up at Rick, and fuck, there it was again. If he could just learn to make that face on command, he'd never get arrested again, Rick was sure of that. Dammit. He tossed the gun to Stan, who fumbled a little before catching it, trying to keep balanced on Bootleg Rick.

“Do what you want.” Rick said, turning towards the door. “You've got however long it takes me to catch that rabbit with a duck's head I saw on the way in here. If he's here when I come back I'm blowing his head off.”

Rick glanced back over his shoulder just long enough to see Stan nod, then left him to his dumb other Rick and his dumb feelings. If this asshole came back later on and tried to kill him, it would probably serve both of them right.

* * *

Stan winced a little as the front door slammed behind Rick. Well. Behind his Rick, he supposed. The Rick he'd spent the past couple weeks with was still on the floor under Stan's knee, though he'd gone still again. Stan took a deep breath and got up, moving the weapon to his left hand. Rick's technology usually had a bunch of complicated dials and settings and such, but a gun was still a gun. And besides, he wasn't really expecting to use it.

“All right. Get out of here.” He said. “I'm sure you've got a portal gun of your own, so...you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here, y'know?”

Rick—the other Rick—didn't react, and didn't turn around. He just stood with his back to Stan and his hands at his sides.

“Come on.” He said, his voice gruff. He gestured with the gun, in a 'move along' sort of motion to make his point. “The jig is up. I know you're not him now, so get going.”

“Or what?” The other Rick looked back over his shoulder, half his unibrow raised. “Are _you_ gonna shoot me with that if I don't leave?”

“Maybe.”

“Nah.” Rick turned towards him. “You really think you can trust your Rick?”

Stan started at the question. “No offense, but I don't think that's any of your damn business.”

“Yeah, well. I've been lying to you for a week and a half,” Rick took a step closer to him, clearly not deterred by the gun. “And if you think that guy out there's any better than I am, let me remind you that you couldn't tell the difference between us.”

Stan sighed, lowering the weapon but keeping a solid grip on it.

“Look...this whole 'infinite dimensions, infinite versions of you and me and everyone else' thing is still pretty weird to me,” he said, “but I'm guessing you knew a version of me wherever you're from. And I'm also guessing that in your dimension, Adrian killed him.”

Rick smiled without any mirth. “Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“I...what do you mean?”

“That'd fit nicely into the little narrative you've got going on in your head, wouldn't it? If I'm some poor, sad bastard who lost someone he loved to a murderer. You always had a thing about strays, didn't you? Probably a lot easier to believe I'm one of those than to consider the possibility that the person you've been cuddling up to for the past couple of weeks is as much of a monster as any of Rico's goons.”

That quieted Stan. He looked at Rick, uncertain, as the other man continued.

“I knew about Adrian because my Stan met him, yeah. But turns out he was looking to be bribed more than anything else. My Stan recognized him after about fifteen minutes, took him aside and paid him off. You'd have done the same if I'd left you to it. All those dramatics were just to give you a reason to be grateful. That was all.” He smirked. “...Though I did save you about $3,000 in small bills, so...you're welcome.”

“So...” Stan frowned, considering this. “What happened to your Stan? I mean, _something_ happened, right?”

Another possibility was occurring to him. After all, he'd done a lot of stupid, dangerous things with Rick over the years. Plenty of times Rick had been holding a rope that was the only thing keeping him from falling, or covering his ass when they were being fired on. Or egging him on to do something potentially deadly. Hundreds of opportunities for Rick to have gotten him killed, at least if you were looking at it a certain way.

“Nothing happened.” Rick laughed. “He's fine! He's perfectly fine. He just hates my fucking guts.”

What? ...That was it? Stan had to bite back the urge to laugh in Rick's face. Rick's grin looked less like a grin and more like a dog baring its teeth by the second. Whether he was on the verge of tears or something a lot more reckless, Stan didn't want to push him over the edge. But seriously. Was that really all?

“No he doesn't.” Stan rolled his eyes. “I'm sure he doesn't hate you. He's just pissed. Give him some time to cool down, and--”

“You don't get it.” Rick said. “This isn't a goddamned lover's spat. This is salted earth. This is me fucking things up beyond all possibility of repair.”

“I'm sure you haven't done anything worse than that asshole out there--” Stan gestured over his shoulder towards the door that Rick had exited through, “has over the years.”

“Oh-ho-ho yes, yes I have.” Rick growled.

“What _did_ you do?” Stan asked.

“You know.” Rick said. “You have to know. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you've gotta know there's something that asshole out there could do to make you say never again. Something you couldn't forgive.”

Stan was quiet for a while. A few ideas passed through his mind...things Rick had already done that he'd let go of long ago. Things that didn't really make much sense. Things that were too big and abstract to really mean anything to Stan. None of them really seemed to stick, and he couldn't see the point in trying to imagine what Rick might be referring to.

“Not really.” Stan said. “Nothing I can think of.”

“You can't mean that.” Rick said.

“I think...” Stan said slowly, “I'd hate him if he didn't care. If he hurt me, and knew he had, and he didn't care.”

Whatever Rick had been expecting to hear, that wasn't it. Honestly, it was a little satisfying to see the dumbfounded look on his face.

“I don't know if there's a _thing_ he could do that I wouldn't forgive. Maybe there is. But if he cared enough to try and fix it, if he was trying to make up for it....” he shrugged. “If you're doing all that, _really_ doing it, there's nothing that can't be forgiven.”

Rick didn't seem convinced. “Do you really believe that?”

In the back of Stan's mind, there was the memory of his brother's face. Of anger, of his own hands pushing Ford backwards towards a circle of blue light. His body floating away from the ground, him screaming for help, looking back with terror as the light devoured him.

“...I have to.” Stan said.

Rick looked back, silently

“Of course,” he added, handing the gun back to Rick, “running away to hide in some other dimension isn't trying to fix anything. Is it?”

Rick frowned and slipped the gun back into his labcoat, then pulled out a portal gun from the pocket on the other side. He aimed it at the air behind him and fired, bathing the room in a soft green glow. He paused and turned back towards Stan before stepping through.

“You need something?” Stan said after a long moment of silence. “What's the hold up?”

Rick frowned and gestured again to the front door.

“We're the same person, you know,” he said, stepping through the portal. “He's just as bad as I am.”

Rick vanished into the swirling green light, and the portal closed behind him.

A moment later, the sound of a door opening came from the front of the Shack followed by Rick's excited voice.

“Check it out, Lee!”

Stan turned to see Rick holding a small furred-and-feathered creature in his hands, scratching under its chin. It had a rabbitlike face, but instead of ears a long duck's bill extended from the top of its head.

“These little guys' stomachs are full of something like ambergris that's worth bank on the intergalactic black market. If we can get this one to puke a couple times, it'll pay for a weekend at Space Vegas, easy!”

“Yeah?” Stan smiled a little at the idea that Rick could be so pleased over a little thing like some duck-bunny puke that he seemed to have forgotten the mood he'd left in.

“It's not even cruel, these things love throwing up, they're total freaks!” He looked up and glanced around the room. “So is season six Darrin gone?”

“Yeah, he's gone.” Stan reached out to pet the little monster on its back, looking up at Rick with a smirk. “Say, how do I know _you're_ really Rick?”

“We were both 'really' Rick, you dingus.” Rick rolled his eyes, letting the duck bunny hop out of his hands onto the floor. “He wasn't a doppleganger, he was me from some second-rate reality.”

“Uh huh...So how did things go with Beth?” Stan asked.

“Oh!” Rick's face lit up at that. “Holy shit, let me show you—she has a kid now!”

He reached into the pocket of his labcoat and pulled out a handful of Polaroids, eagerly holding one out to Stan. He saw a redheaded toddler—hard to guess the exact age—gleefully destroying a tower of blocks.

“Her name's Summer, i-isn't she great?” Rick said. “She's not really using full sentences yet but she's already learned sarcasm.”

“She's cute.” Stan said, flipping through the pictures. “Looks a little like you...mostly in the 'maniacal laughter' area.”

“There's another one on the way, too...” Rick said, pointing to a shot of Beth—a hell of a lot older than when Stan had last seen her, and just barely visibly pregnant. “She m-married some guy whose name I didn't bother to learn and they're living in the suburbs now. Oh! And get this, you know how she used to love cutting up roadkill? Well guess what she does for a living now....”

They sat on the rug for a long while, Stan listening while Rick rambled on about Beth's life and family, and how visiting them had gone.

Rick focused mostly on the positives, but underneath it all Stan had the sense that Beth was still mad at him for running out on her and her mom. Which wasn't really much of a surprise...but she at least wanted to keep seeing him, and that was something. Hell, it was everything.

The girl had a soft spot for her dad that was a mile wide. If she didn't forgive him now, she was giving him a chance to earn forgiveness. And in the end, Stan thought, that was all that anyone could ask for.

 


End file.
